DEMETRIA
The sky had already begun to blush into shades of orange and pink. Another long day, but we’ve got a lot to do before the gala on Friday. It is the day. The event. The Whitfields.
I slipped off my apron and set it on the counter, exhaling slowly. My hands smelled faintly of cinnamon and butter, reminders of the cookies I’d perfected for Mrs. Whitfield’s event. They were simple, but perfection often lived in the simple things. At least, that’s what I told myself when I started to overthink.
We’ve started preparations already. The gala is in three days. Just around the corner. The pies and cakes are next.
“Brielle,” I called as I entered the kitchen. She appeared, hair tied back, flour dusted across her cheek. “Have you started with the batch of mini fruit tarts and lemon merin
